by Susan Haas
Then, I was maybe twelve or thirteen, at the mall with Anna and Elle. I was holding an ice cream cone, trying to lick the sticky, strawberry stream dribbling onto my hand, but I was laughing so hard, and they were laughing so hard, I couldn’t keep up.
And finally, worst of all, that same version of me was gathered with my family at the dinner table. I couldn’t make out the conversation because everyone was talking at once. I must have asked Kasey to pass the potatoes because she did. And Tucker probably said something aggravating because I punched him in the arm. He laughed and punched me back.
I watched us all for a few moments. Each of us eating, talking, laughing. In this world, I wasn’t at the center. I wasn’t the planet that couldn’t exist without its six moons orbiting closely. This was seven individual units going about life together, but also independently.
This was not the life I was going to have. This was the life that was stolen.
My arms and legs were just tiny particles now, my chest and head were fading. There was nothing left to hold them together. The person, the entity, that had been me was nearly gone.
This is NOT how this is supposed to be. This is NOT how this is supposed to end.
Mom pulled me onto her shoulder and wrapped her arms around me. I buried my face in her shirt, and we let our tears come. My body was shaking, heaving as I sobbed.
Mom held onto me for dear life. Her tears fell onto my shoulder. They tickled a little, and I found myself concentrating on each tear as it made its way from my shoulder and down my back before finally rolling off and pooling at the back of my knee. Drop after drop of pure, distilled love. The price for caring so much.
Slowly—so slowly that at first I didn’t notice—I began to reform. Bits and pieces that made up my shoulders and chest and arms and legs reappeared. The pieces merged together and became solid.
You can do this. You. Can.
I opened my eyes and found I could still see. I took a deep breath and found I could still breathe. The pain was still there, deep and throbbing like the phantom ache of a missing limb. Or a missing life.
I slid from Mom’s shoulder and onto her lap. I was whole again. And nothing, not one thing, was different.
I was the same kid I had been before I knew the truth. I was the same kid who couldn’t walk or talk or control her body, but I was also the kid gifted with memory. And words. And humor. And persistence.
And optimism. The new gift jumped in line all on its own. My Aha! moment. I smiled.
CHAPTER 46
Age 13, 45 minutes until surgery
In the hospital lobby, Mom peels the trash bag off me, and underneath I’m mostly dry.
Mom is soaked. She runs a hand across her face. “I was wondering if I’d get my jog in today.”
Gus shakes his head and the shudder runs down his back and to his tail, like a wave. He is smiling.
Dad is not.
Mom pries the umbrella from Dad’s hand and kisses his cheek. “You worry too much.”
Steve is waiting for us in pre-op. He’s wearing scrubs and his game face. I want someone to crack a joke. Please, Dad, tell a joke!
“We decided to swim over this morning,” Mom says, squeezing rain from her ponytail.
We all laugh.
Mom helps me change into another ridiculous butt-baring gown, and the day suddenly gets real. My sinkhole of fear is trying to grow, but I focus on my rock, and it holds steady.
Today, the IV goes in easily. There are more forms to sign and a parade of nurses, techs, and -ists.
There have been plenty of phone pings to keep Dad busy. First, there were texts from my siblings wishing me good luck. Next, texts from Anna, Elle, and Ms. Trejo. I have already repeated those in my head like fifty times.
Right now, Dad is flooded with message pings—notes from all over the world, sending love, hope, prayers, and good vibes. I want to hear them all. I think I understand a little better about the prayers offered up from strangers now, about the need to do something.
Of course, Dad is responding to every single message. Thirteen years ago, in the craziness of my birth and the days after, he felt like a helpless bystander. It doesn’t matter one nickel that what happened to me wasn’t his fault. Maybe his obsessive need to do something is his price for caring so much.
Finally, the techs stand by my gurney ready to roll me to the operating room, and my stomach lurches. I remind myself of all the planning, all the research.
You’ve done this before, and you were only seven.
We’re moving now.
But I didn’t know what was ahead of me. It was all just a big circus then.
The first surgery, all my family was there. The media was there too, snapping pictures as I rolled off. It was like starring in a TV show, and at some point, someone offstage was gonna say, “Cut.”
I laugh out loud at that, and Mom and Dad look at me with their heads tilted. I study their faces. Please, please don’t let me forget their faces!
My caravan begins to speed up, and suddenly everything is happening too fast.
White coats swish by. Hurry. Hurry.
The wheels on my gurney whirl over linoleum tiles. Hurry, Hurry. Finish your story. Before you go in. Before it’s too late.
CHAPTER 47
Age 6, The Year of the Buttered Cat
After Mom finished telling my birth story, I sat motionless on her lap for a long time. She didn’t talk or try to move me. We just sat. I let my story seep in. That story that had been hidden, kept separate for so long, needed to become part of who I was. The fragmented tale of NASCAR Tucker had been my whole birth story for so long. Now I could see why it had been plucked out of all that sadness to be the one carefree reminder of that day.
But there was still one thing that didn’t make sense. There was one more thing I needed to know. I lunged towards my cookie sheet.
Mom jumped, like I had startled her from her thoughts. “What? What’s wrong?”
I uncurled my finger. She pulled the cookie sheet onto my lap and held my wrist.
I pulled down a few letters, but now I was dragging bricks. After two words, I stopped.
My doctor
Mom gave me a little squeeze. “Lexi, I’ve spent your entire life trying to forget about him. Let’s not go there.”
Ggguuhhh. I reached forward.
ALL Even Lou.
She looked at me with wide eyes, then sighed. “Okay. You’re right. You need to hear your whole story.”
She pushed aside my cookie sheet. In her face, I saw sparks from a smoldering fire that had been prodded back to life.
“The part about your brain injury is the only part we know for sure. But there’s also the mystery of your missing medical records, and we can only guess about what happened there.
“As for the hospital, I don’t think there was anything intentional. That day, I think they were overwhelmed, got sloppy, and took shortcuts. The nurse who said she would put you under the lights probably got busy and forgot. I don’t think anyone ever wrote about jaundice in your hospital records. But the doctor … the doctor was a different story.”
She held her breath like she was trying to control the flames licking inside.
“I think at one point there was mention of jaundice in his notes, because your entire first visit was about how yellow you were! When I started asking for medical records, he probably panicked. He knew he hadn’t monitored your jaundice. He also knew that if I ever figured it out, he’d be in big trouble. So, he got rid of the only evidence he had—the records from your first visit.
“And it worked out for him, didn’t it?” She laughed a little, but it was a cold laugh. “It threw us off the trail for a couple of years. Once I figured it out, there was no evidence that he had ever seen you jaundiced, so he couldn’t be held responsible. For years, we tried to find a way to hold him accountable. We went to one attorney after another. But in the legal system, missing evidence is basically no evidence.”
No e
vidence? Didn’t she see the absurdity, the obvious flaw in that? I flailed. How could destroying my records wipe out my very existence? What about me? I’m still here! I twisted and groaned. Please look at me! I AM the evidence!
My life flashed before me again, but this time it was real life.
I was propped up on pillows on my parents’ bed. Dad picked up my hand and strummed it over his guitar so I could feel how a hand should move. Then, I was strapped in my sparkly blue wheelchair, and Tucker was running with me up and down our driveway so I could feel the wind in my face. Finally, I was curled on Mom’s lap, and with a shaky hand, I drug plastic letters around a cookie sheet so that I could have a voice.
Could one stroke of a pen, one person’s desperate attempt to bury the truth, erase a lifetime?
I flailed harder, but the fire had consumed her.
“There are deadlines for how long families have to file this sort of lawsuit. After trying four times to take this to court, I just wanted to move on and focus on treatments. Lou Lattimore was Dad’s last shot at bringing your doctor to justice. The legal system failed us, but if your doctor has a conscience at all, he’s living with guilt. He knows he caused your brain injury and that he covered it up. Dad says there’s a cold, dark place in hell for people like that.”
She started to cry again. She buried her face in my hair and rocked me hard and fast as she sobbed. We were transported in time, together, to that moment on our front porch when she first discovered what happened.
I wanted to make this better for her, to tell her that everything was gonna be okay. I would be okay. Even without my body, I would have an amazing life. I was one-hundred percent sure. After all, I was a gifted optimist.
Of course, I couldn’t tell her I knew all five of my gifts and how awesome that felt, after over a year of searching to finally know! She hadn’t given up until she knew, and neither had I. Knowing my gifts wouldn’t bring me my body but finding them still felt important.
I tried to pat Mom’s back, but instead wound up punching her in the ribs. She continued to sob.
After a few minutes, I knew there was only one way to get her attention. I drank in deep breaths of air and let fly an impressively loud burp.
She sat up, laughing even as the tears continued. Finally, she wiped away the last few and smiled. “We should’ve told you before. After we saw Steve, Dad and I rarely spoke of it again, and only with each other. It was as if saying it out loud would somehow set it in cement. Early on, there was hope that you might outgrow some of it, that your young brain would find a way to rewire. So we chose to focus on that instead.
“By the time you were three, I knew we had to tell you, but I didn’t want to kill your spirit. From the very beginning you were the hardest worker I had ever known. You just pushed ahead no matter what obstacles were put in front of you. I should have had more faith in you, given you more credit. I should have known you persevered despite not knowing, not because you didn’t know. Does that all make sense?”
I stuck out my tongue and smiled.
Mom looked at her watch and gasped. “It’s nearly eleven and you haven’t had dinner yet. What kind of mother am I?” She reached for the cooler.
Ggguuhhh.
“No? Aren’t you hungry?”
Ggguuhhh.
She looked into my eyes for a long moment then shifted so that she was lying down with me curled in her arms. I guess we fell asleep like that, because I don’t remember anything else of that night.
CHAPTER 48
Age 13, 5 minutes until surgery
My gurney has stopped outside a set of wide double doors. On the wall, a sign reads, RESTRICTED ACCESS—STAFF ONLY. Red letters. All caps. I think they mean it.
Mom and Dad lean over. I see fear in their eyes.
I think back to our flight to Missouri—could it really have been only three days ago?—and to Bob from the parks department.
“Sinkholes don’t happen just anywhere. They happen in places where the rock below the surface has eroded away, leaving a cavity that will eventually collapse in on itself.”
Wait! Please, please stop!
I realize I’ve told my story wrong. My sinkhole didn’t start when I found out about my stroke. It was way before that. My sinkhole started in that hotel room six years ago. It started when I finally learned the truth about my birth. That doctor eroded my foundation in ways that even I don’t understand. But it has to stop. Here. Today. I can’t be invisible any longer. I have to get my voice. I have to be the evidence.
“Are you ready?” Mom asks. Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Yeah!”
I belt it out, loud and strong. It echoes in the hall, and Gus barks.
Mom smiles at me, and I study her brown eyes. I don’t remember when those lines first appeared in the corners. And her auburn hair is now tinged with gray. Is that new? I guess it’s true that worry can age a person. I want to reach up and hug her. To stroke her hair and tell her everything is going to be fine. There are no guarantees in there, but we’ve done everything we can possibly do. We’ve buttered the whole cat.
Dad puts a hand on my forehead then slowly combs his fingers through my curls.
The double doors swing open, and I roll through.
Nearly there. Deep breath in. My story. Breath out.
CHAPTER 49
Age 6, The Year of the Buttered Cat
The morning after I learned my whole story, I woke up in that hotel bed, still in my clothes. The drapes were open, and sun streamed in. Mom was already up working at her laptop. When she saw my eyes open, she leaned over to kiss me. Her hair tickled my cheeks.
My stomach wasted no time reminding me that I had missed dinner. I glanced towards the cooler and opened my mouth wide.
“I bet you’re starving!” She opened the cooler, poked around inside, and closed it.
Then Mom did something that she never did. She called room service.
We ordered scrambled eggs and waffles with real strawberries, not the frozen soggy ones. Mom got coffee, and I got chocolate milk. We sat together on the bed, and she fed me like she used to, all curled up on her lap.
In the early afternoon, we loaded up the van and drove home, Mom singing to the radio and me, with a bad case of kernicterus, humming along in my head.
The pain from the news wasn’t completely gone. The tears, the frustration, the anger would all rush back, sometimes at the most unexpected times. But there were years ahead to deal with all that. This new day was for celebrating accomplishments. Hannah had been right. They were the feathers in my cap and the birds I had met along the way. And those weren’t small things.
When we finally got home, it was nearly dark. My whole family was standing in the driveway holding paper signs that said, Welcome Home and We missed you.
At first, I thought Tucker’s sign was upside down, but when I looked closer I saw that Tucker was upside down, walking on his hands with his sign taped to his shirt.
He cartwheeled to the van, and for a hot second, I was back at the beach, watching him cartwheel down the sand. I thought about the promise I had made 13 months before. When my body comes in, I’m gonna do that too. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know when, but I knew someday I would keep that promise.
Kali took me from my car seat and hugged me. Luke bounded towards us with The Cat in hot pursuit.
I watched The Cat figure-eighting Luke and thought of prophecies and gifts and buttered cats. It would be years before I understood it all. I was pretty sure buttering the cat was not about fixing a broken relationship. What I didn’t yet understand was that it also was not about fixing me. In fact, it wasn’t about me at all. Buttering the cat was a step towards fixing Mom.
As the sun melted behind treetops, I sunk into Kali’s shoulder and thought, Life could be a lot worse.
And that wasn’t even my optimism talking.
CHAPTER 50
Age 13, Recovery, Day 1
I wake to searing pain from
my neck to my belly. It pulses. Snakes! I try to shake off the one slithering up my back. Writhing makes it bite harder, so I try to lie still.
I open my eyes a crack, but they’re heavy. I can sort of make out a garland strung over my window. Is it Christmas? Where am I?
There’s a fuzzy, flurry of movement in the room, and I realize I’m not alone.
A dog—or is it a wolf? Or a coyote?—jumps onto my bed and lies across my legs. How did that get in here? I flail, and the snake sinks in its fangs. The animal on my legs won’t budge. He lies there like it’s his job or something. An auburn-haired lady grabs my hand.
“Squeeze. Once for one hit of morphine, twice for two, three for the max.”
Three squeezes.
She pushes a button once, twice, three times.
The pulsing pain continues. Consciousness is trickling back. There are no snakes.
I open my eyes wider, but the room is still blurry. The animal scooches up from my legs to lick my face.
“Not the face!” the woman says. She leans in to kiss me, and her hair tickles my cheeks.
“Well, it’s about time,” says a man’s voice.
The animal licks me some more. My eyes focus and my first clear image is of a pink, slobbery tongue. A black dog is draped across my chest.
The smell hits my nose all at once. Memories of a black dog skidding between my dad’s legs flood back.
“Oh geez. Someone crack a window please!” the man says.
Dad! And Gus! My farting, ADD service dog, Gus.
Dad leans over me. His T-shirt is pulled up over his nose, but his eyes are smiling. “Trying to wake you after sedation is leashing—”
The cat! It’s leashing the cat!
My eyes dart from Mom to Dad. My Mom. My Dad.
I flail, and white-hot pain shoots up my side and into my neck. The morphine should kick in any second now. I remember that from last time. Last. Time. It’s a blurry flurry of memories.